The wolf who loved lemoncakes
by myrishlace
Summary: Sansa asks a group of wildling women for fighting lessons, and gets a surprising answer.
1. Chapter 1

Sansa approached the group of wildling women around a campfire. They were raucous, and rowdy. In an earlier life, she would have turned up her nose at them and thanked the gods she was a proper lady. Now she saw their weapons at their feet and heard them talking, free and easy, and they looked like some of the happiest women she had ever seen. _I need to know, she thought. I need to know how to fight. No one can protect anyone, but I can try to learn how to protect myself_.

She was acutely aware, as she walked over to them, of her fine blue dress and wool cloak, her clean hair, her soft, gloved hands. She'd had the idea when she'd first heard of spearwives. She knew Jon had taken a lover, while he was in the Night's Watch. That fact alone had shocked her, when she first heard it – Jon, who could barely look at a woman sideways, had been in love? With a wildling woman?

"Her name was Ygritte," Jon said, and stopped.

"You loved her."

"Aye. I did. As well as I could."

"Do you think you would have married?" Sansa asked, and regretted it, it sounded ridiculous, a thing for a silly highborn lady to ask, but Jon laughed, half-smiling, half-frowning.

"No. No, I don't think she would have. The wildlings say a man can have a woman, or a knife, but not both. And she didn't want to have me that way."

They're dressed for the cold, in furs and skins in shades of grey and brown. The wildlings looked the most comfortable of all the folk who'd gathered at Winterfell. Winter was here, but they were still south of the Wall, and the cold that brutalized others barely touched them. They didn't huddle when they walked, or race from one building to another. They lounged in the cold, enjoyed it. As if they had been born for it. _I suppose they were, in a way. Born for the North. Winter suits them_.

The blond wildling leaning against a rock near the fire, with a quiver of arrows next to her, turned first as Sansa approached, her boots crunching on the snow. An animal was roasting on a spit and the women were digging into the meal, carving off pieces as they ate. _It's a hunting party_. The meat smelled wonderful, and Sansa's mouth watered. They all looked at her now, one elbowing another, as the conversation died down.

"Hello," she said, in a small voice. _Damn you, Sansa, these women are warriors. Are you that much of a little bird that you can't even chirp when they're around?_ They're skeptical, wary, but most acknowledge her with a nod. They know who she is.

"I...I've come to ask a favor of you." she said. "I need to learn how to fight, and I thought... I thought I might ask if you would teach me." She finished stronger, her voice clearer, carrying across the circle.

"Why d'you need to learn to fight?" asked the blond one. "I'm Dara, by the way."

Sansa had steeled herself for that question, she'd imagined it delivered many ways, with a sneer, or a smirk or some sort of judgment, _what does the fair Lady of Winterfell think she can ask of us, we're not kneelers, shove off_. She hadn't expected frank curiosity. That was a relief, of sorts.

"I...my last husband beat me, tortured me." _So did my first_. "He hurt me, over and over, offered me to the dogs and I just...took it. I need to know how to never let that happen again." _And I may have to marry again, and soon_.

"I think you've got that backwards, lass," Dara said flatly. "Aye, he beat you, raped you no doubt, tortured you...and then you escaped, brought an army down around his head and fed him to his own dogs."

Sansa blinked, slowly. She'd never thought of it quite that way.

"I like that dog bit," said a woman with brown braids through a mouthful of meat. "Poetic, like. Same dogs he came at you with?"

"...yes."

The women murmured approval around the circle. "So I don't think you need fighting lessons from us, lass. Aye, you might need to learn how to wield a knife at close quarters, but I'd say you've got the gist of it. Your half-brother, the King in the North?" Dara said.

"King in the South, more like," one wildling muttered.

"Yes, he's the King in the North," Sansa said. She remembered the stunned look on Jon's face, how she's sat at the head table, proud, and jealous, and terrified, all at once, as grown men eager for Stark blood to lead them demanded Jon's allegiance. Just as they had for Robb. _Fools. How did they know this would end any better?_

"They call him the White Wolf, don't they?" Dara asked as she crouched to clean an arrow.

"They do."

"Well, I think you're the Red Wolf, lass. Wouldn't cross you. it's a better name, too. Oi! Durmund!" she yelled to a bearded giant of a man chopping logs by the next camp.

"Whatd'ya want, Dara?"

"Let's say you had to pick a fighting name. What'd it be, the white wolf, or the red wolf?"

"Red wolf, o'course. It's bloodier, strike more fear into my enemy's hearts." He grinned, splitting a stump clean in half with his axe.

"There you are," Dara nodded as she finished and stood. "The White Wolf's pretty tame anyway. Ygritte liked him well enough, but too soft for my tastes. You two getting married?"

"What?" Sansa squeaked.

"Look at him like you might want to marry him," muttered the brown-haired woman.

"Aye, she does, Nalla," Dara said.

"That – that would be wrong, it would be a sin against the gods," Sansa said. _Or, you know, you could've just said you don't want to marry him. Jon. Your half-brother. Why not start there next time?_

"Wrong as marrying that monster, the one what tortured you?" Dara cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Well, that was wrong too, of course, but –"

"Not sure what you're going to do then, you've got yourself a problem there, he's clean over the moon about you," Dara said.

"Gods, we thought he swooned enough over Ygritte," Nalla said.

"Jon doesn't feel that way about me," Sansa said, as firmly as she could manage. _How did we end up here?_

"Well, wouldn't know how he feels," said Dara –

"...wouldn't mind finding out how he feels, any night of the week," joked the tallest wilding –

" – but we got eyes, and it's plain he's in love with you," Dara finished.

"But how...how could that be all right?" Sansa twisted the end of her braid in her hands. "He told me about Craster's daughters..."

"Now that's different, and you're sharp enough to know it. Those girls didn't ask for that, they weren't free to leave," Dara said.

"Didn't have your talent with armies and dogs," said Nalla.

"I mean for all I know Durmund here's my half-brother and no one told me. We wildlings, there's not that many of us, we'd take a cousin no question, might think about a half-brother, especially if he's half as handsome as yours," Dara said. "Look, the White Walkers are coming. Grab some happiness before the long night comes." She leaned in. "Here, either way, just talk to him about it. Before now I thought you just weren't interested, but I don't think you'd be blushing like you are now if you weren't. Only one in this camp doesn't want him is Lya, and she just goes for girls. All the rest of us would steal him...at least for a night. You deserve some better memories than the ones you have, lass."

 _I do_ , Sansa thought, _and I'm not sorry for it_.

"But...but even if he does feel that way...I think he'd be ashamed of it too."

Dara smirked. "I think he bought all the lemons within fifty miles of Winterfell just to make sure you had lemoncakes for your name day."

"How do you know about that?"

"He's not subtle is he? Thinks he is, poor thing. Dragging himself through camp asking about the best ways to find lemons in winter. 'They're for Lady Sansa,' he sighs. Like he's talking about a princess. We all got a laugh out of it."

"Do you think she'll like them?" Nalla did her best Jon impression. "How many does it take to make lemoncakes?" More of the women were laughing now. "Aye," said Dara, picking it up. "'Do you think cook will help me'? he asks. Of course cook will help you! You're the King in the bloody North, aren't you?"

 _This is dangerous_ , Sansa thought, _I need to go, others might hear this_. Dara glanced at her and shushed the group. "Look, our point is he was nervous, like a lovesick boy, and the only thing he thought about was how to make you happy. Bought them with his own money too, you needn't worry, all that Stark honor you're always going on about, he sold some gift or other to buy them, told us winter is coming, no one should have to go hungry for this, and we all wanted him to just get on with it, because it was nothing but Landy Sansa and lemoncakes for two weeks."

 _She remembered him bringing them to her in her solar, putting the plate down carefully, not looking at her, saying quietly "I thought you might like them, for your name day."_

 _She'd been sewing, a tunic for him with a wolf's-head embroidered on it, but she'd tucked it away, she wasn't ready to show it to him yet. She'd chided him about the expense and he'd said "I just...I thought it might make you happy, for a moment anyway." She'd thanked him, and he'd looked at her then and smiled like his heart was in his eyes._

 _"_ _Would you like one?"_

 _"_ _No...these are for you."_

 _"_ _Sit and have them with me, please. For my name day."_

 _So he did, picking one up and taking a bite, and made a face. She laughed. "I've never been much for sweets," he said, chuckling, "you try one."_

 _She closed her eyes, and it wasn't the finest lemoncake she'd ever had, but it was the best, because she was safe at Winterfell, and Ramsey and Joffrey were dead, and in the midst of all they faced, Jon had taken the time to do this just for her. She made a very unladylike sound – a moan if she was honest – as she bit into the cake and then covered her mouth and laughed again. "Good?" Jon asked, his eyes darker and crinkled at the corners. "Very good. Delicious. Thank you Jon, this was so sweet of you."_

"Red? Are you dreaming? You dropped off there for a second." Dara's voice snapped her back to the present.

"Thinking about lemoncakes, or kissing the White Wolf, some memory worth keeping," Nalla said.

Dara sighed. "So aye, he might feel bad about being over the moon about his half-sister, but more than anything that man would go to the ends of the earth to make you happy. So if you tell him first, I bet he'll come 'round. Right, now that's enough clucking for one day, we're off to hunt. Come back tomorrow with a knife, we'll show you some tricks."

"Cutting a man's throat."

"Or his balls, when he tries it, you know."

"The basics."

They all laughed, and for a miracle Sansa laughed with them. "See you tomorrow, Red Wolf," Dara called out as she threw her quiver over her shoulder. "Head out, let's catch the last of the light, you lot!"

Sansa walked back to Winterfell with the taste of lemoncakes in her mouth, and with plans to ask Jon for a knife that night. And whether she'd ask him more, she hadn't decided, but she thought she just might.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa passed by the doorway with Lady Brienne as Jon and Tormund stood at the table in the great hall at Winterfell. They were going over the plans for the weapons they'd need – _thank the gods we have a smith, and the steel from Ramsey's weapons_ – and suddenly Jon was very focused on the piece of parchment in front of him.

Tormund made an appreciative sound. "That one there now, lucky, kissed by fire, braver than half our army, wish we had more men like her about."

Jon grunted in what he hoped was a non-committal way. "How quickly do you think we can turn out these axes?" Too late he realized he'd almost torn the paper in half.

"Careful," Tormund said. "Thought you'd kill some of those men at the wall, the way they looked at her."

"I just -" Jon ran a hand over his face. "She's been through enough with men, men who hurt her, men I couldn't protect her from."

 _I'll protect you, I promise. I'll never let him touch you again_.

 _You can't protect me, Jon. No one can protect anyone_.

She'd told him that the night before the attack, when she said she'd die before going back to Ramsey. He'd never felt so helpless.

Tormund must have seen something in the set of his jaw. "You didn't know, Snow. I'd want to bring him back to life, too, to kill him again. But you can't, so stop being a coward. What eats at you about it? She's here, she's safe, it's done, you made a bloody production of running your little banners down the walls and I'm tired of you acting like a child when she's around. Look, if you don't tell me, I'll set Lady Brienne on you, she's as stubborn as you, I'd wager. Prettier too. Wouldn't mind stealing her. "

Jon smirked, glancing over at Brienne in her armor. "Good luck with that."

"Or she could steal me, I'm not choosy about it, long as we end up in the same tent." Tormund grinned that goofy smile, and Jon swore he waggled his eyebrows.

Jon picked up his tankard and drank, the ale bitter in his mouth, and he remembered how Sansa had been shocked at the taste of it, at the Wall, and he'd laughed for the first time in forever.

She'd been the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, in the courtyard at Castle Black, a little unsure, but determined as she dismounted, with Brienne solid as a fortress by her side. Sansa's hair was frayed, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Even from a distance he could tell she was exhausted, and frightened, that they'd ridden hard to get here. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd and alighted on him and the force of it had knocked him back before he went to her, drawn to her like iron to a lodestone.

She'd paused for only a second and then threw herself into his arms, _Jon_ , his name against the shell of his ear. She was so thin and she clung to him fiercely as he held her, steadied her, he wanted to be as strong as she needed him to be. She buried her face in his neck and he closed his eyes, breathing her in, her warmth, her scent, and it was the first moment it felt like he could get air all the way into his lungs, the moment he truly came back from the dead. He remembered how she'd smiled, afterwards, when he'd told her wherever they'd go, they'd go together, because yes, he needed to watch over her and _I can't, I can't ever be apart from you again_.

"She's been bought and sold her whole life," Tormund cut in. "Dara's teaching her to fight, y'know. And well, that gives her a choice."

Jon set the tankard down too hard on the dark wood and the war markers jumped a bit. "I wish I could give her Winterfell, for her own, she'd never have to marry."

"And you know that's what she wants? To never marry? Told you, has she?"

"No," Jon admitted.

Tormund snorted. "I'll tell you what happens to wildling men who make assumptions about wildling women, they get gelded, that's what. You want to make her happy, Snow, that's plain as day to everyone and maybe too plain to a few. So you might start by asking her what that means."

Jon turned Tormund's words over in his mind later that night as he splashed water on his face and banked the fire in his room before getting into bed. He kept his chambers chilly by the standards of most Winterfell folks, but it was what he was used to after years at the Wall.

He was too much of a coward to ask Sansa what would make her happy, but that didn't mean he hadn't thought about it. _I think about it too much, to tell the truth_. He was glad he'd made her lemoncakes for her name day, and he'd done it simply to make her happy. But it was the look on her face and the sound of pleasure she'd made, biting into one, that haunted him at times like these. He'd do anything to hear that sound again. There'd been a bit of cake at the corner of her mouth, after she'd laughed, and he had been struck with the impulse to kiss her there. He desperately wanted to know what else would make her as happy as lemoncakes, how she'd like to be touched, and he had more than a few ideas and gods, he was a lost man, he thought wearily as he rolled over to try to sleep.

"I had this made for you," he said, holding out the knife to her, hilt first. He'd knocked on her solar door a few days after talking to Tormund. He'd wanted to make it beautiful, like her, ornate, delicate, and strong, but he knew what she wanted to use it for, and although he hated it, he knew she needed a functional blade, easy to conceal. Sansa stood, putting here sewing aside, and stepped towards him.

"How did you know, Jon?"

"I'd heard you'd talked to the wildlings about learning to fight."

("Practical, that one," Dara had said, her hood up against the cold. "Quick at it too. Needs a better knife, though.")

She looked down at the stone floor. "I hope I didn't cause you any trouble, Jon."

"No, you didn't. They...they like you, the wildlings."

Sansa smiled to herself. "I like them too. I thought they wouldn't like me." She took the knife from him and hefted the wooden handle.

"How does it feel? Do you like the balance?"

 _I think so_ , Arya had said. A lifetime ago, a different weapon. What did it say about him, that the best he could do was put weapons in his sisters' hands?

"Yes, I think I do, Jon. Thank you."

The next day he saw her at the wildlings' camp, practicing. Her hair was braided, away from her face, and as Nalla side-stepped her knife Sansa tripped and laughed, clear as a struck bell, and he hadn't heard that particular laugh from her since they were children, before King's Landing, before winter arrived, and he thought perhaps he hadn't done too badly, after all.

"I think you've got it, lass. I'm glad Jon got you that knife," Dara said. They'd thought it hilarious when she'd brought a knife from the kitchens, earlier.

("Right, that'll cut through butter and might scare a rabbit. Did Jon give you that?" Dara had asked lightly, and Sansa thought, not for the first time, that Dara missed very little.

"No, I didn't want to bother him with it." She hadn't been able to work up the courage after all, she'd stood at his chamber door and somehow couldn't knock.

"Well, we can practice a bit with this –"

"Here I'll go catch a rabbit, you can frighten it to death," Nalla said –

"But you need a better blade.")

"So now you're set to kill a man, or to steal one," Dara said. "Just don't go taking any of our men, we're partial to this lot. Oh, you could have Durmond, though, if you liked," Dara said, as if discussing the weather.

"I - I'm fine, thank you," Sansa stuttered, turning pink. "No need to trouble Durmond."

"Pity, Durmond's been looking forward to that," Dara said, and winked.

"I didn't know, about the stealing part," she said to Jon. He was standing with her at the training yard fence and they were surrounded by the shouts of men and boys, the clack of wooden swords and the sharp bite of steel.

She loved to watch them, to watch Jon, if she was honest, the way he moved, the way he brought out the best in the boys he trained. Jon pushed them, aye, but he was never cruel, she didn't think Jon was capable of it. That could be a liability, in this world, but it was a gift too. He worked with each of them, spoke earnestly to them as if he believed in them, in what they could do, and they drank it in, like plants thirsty for water.

She'd always thought fighting was a brutal business, and it was, but Dara had showed her it was a bit like dancing, really, anticipating how the other person would move next, countering, parrying. Jon had hated dancing when he was younger, she remembered, but he was graceful in battle, he wielded Longclaw like a dancer, he was fluid and quick and something inside her thrilled to watch him. Most men were workmanlike about fighting, they swung a sword like a stick, but Jon's sword was an extension of his arm as he fought, he was beautiful, his movements were clean and spare and sure -

He'd seen her staring then, she hadn't realized she'd been so careless. Jon had called for someone else to take over the practice and come over to meet her, curious, and he was in front of her now, sweating in his leather armor. His dark curls stuck to his neck and his breath hung like steam in the air and she'd blurted out something about stealing, gods, she wished the ground would swallow her up.

He paused and pulled back a bit, looking at her, at the knife in her hand. "Aye, there's...you can, with that. If you want to." He sounded as awkward as she felt and there was something charged in the air between them.

 _Change the subject, Sansa_. "You're good with them, with the boys." He glanced their way.

"Aye, they're a not a bad group, better than they think they are, they'll learn," he said as he turned to watch them, half-smiling, squinting in the snow's glare.

"They will, with you teaching them, Jon."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm stealing you," she whispered, holding the knife to his throat in his chambers.

Jon had taken off his shirt for the night and had just finished folding it over the head of the bed. He stilled.

She held the knife lightly, and they both knew he could break away and come to no harm.

But he didn't.

He turned to her, slightly, his bare shoulder brushing against hers. He hadn't said a word. She was glad the fire was almost out and his room was dark save for the moonlight.

He was almost facing her now, and she could make out the scars on his chest, and feel the heat of his skin. She let the knife clatter onto the bedside table. She curled into him and he rested his forehead against hers. They stayed like that, on the edge.

"I want to kiss you," she said, and heard his sharp intake of breath.

It mattered a great deal to her that the did this willingly, not because he felt he had to, and she was almost sure that was true, his hand wouldn't be at her waist and his face wouldn't be so close to hers if he didn't, but she didn't want him to regret it later. She reached out and traced the scar on his face.

"May I kiss you?" It was a proper, formal question, and she would have thought it would feel out of place, she'd had a knife at his throat a moment ago, but it didn't. It felt right.

"Gods, yes, Sansa," he rasped, and pulled her closer. Finally, something deep inside of her said, finally, and she whimpered in the back of her throat. He opened his mouth against hers, tentatively, then hungry, when she kissed him back. He broke away, panting, trailing kisses down her jawline and tangling his free hand in her hair, and if she ever doubted whether he struggled the same way she did, she didn't any longer.

"Jon," she murmured, her eyes closed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head back to give him better access. His name on her lips seemed to spur him and he drew them both down to the bed. She knew she would be cold, if it weren't for the heat of his skin. She wanted more heat, more of him, and slid her dressing gown off her shoulders, and he looked at her in wonder. "So beautiful, Sansa, you're so beautiful," he whispered, and kissed her collarbone.

She pressed herself against him and his hands moved over her back, where she had scars of her own, from Joffrey and Ramsey. She was most afraid of this moment, he'd never seen her scars, and a recklessness overtook her, if he's going to see me, he needs to see all of me, let's see if he still thinks you're beautiful then, when he sees you're ruined, and she knew that was Ramsey's voice. But Ramsey was gone, the Red Wolf killed him, and she was alive and had stolen the man she loved. She turned, her dressing gown pooling around her hips. She expected to wait, for him to get accustomed to the sight. Instantly his fingertips bushed over her back. "So beautiful, and so brave," he whispered against her ear, "I've never known anyone as beautiful and brave as you, Sansa," and still he couldn't get enough of her.

She turned to face him and slipped her hands under the laces of his breeches. "Take these off, please, Jon," and then they were skin to skin, there was nothing at all between them as she sank into the furs. She could taste the ale on his tongue and something else, something that was Jon's alone. His beard grazed her cheek and heat coiled and swirled in her belly, she couldn't stop touching him, and it felt so good it scared her.

"Jon, what's happening?"

"Sansa, are you all right?" His rough hands cupped her face. His pupils were blown and his voice was husky, and she saw lust and tenderness in his dark eyes.

"I've just, I've never, I don't know, is this what happens?" She cast about for the right words but he understood her, thank the gods, he kissed her brow for a long moment.

"It's – it's supposed to feel like this, will you let me show you, Sansa?"

"Yes, Jon, please," and he kissed mouth her again, deeply, taking his time, and the heat in her belly kept building. She thought he'd stop kissing her then, but he didn't, just traced kisses down her belly, his thumbs drawing small circles at her waist, kissed over her navel and lower -

She sat up.

"Jon?"

He was kneeling now, off the bed, between her legs, and he looked up at her, his black hair framing his face. "Trust me, Sansa," he pleaded, and he ran his hands up and down the top of her thighs. "I'll stop, I swear, if you don't like it," and she understood where he meant to kiss her next.

"Is that - is that something you want to do, Jon?" Her voice sounded high and thin to her ears. He kissed the inside of her thigh, and his hands were strong on either side of her hips. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek where his mouth had been. "I dream about this, Sansa," he whispered. "I dream about kissing you here."

She rocked her hips forward without thinking and he groaned. She felt his mouth on her and oh he did, he did want this, he hummed against her and it was too much and not enough at once, she was moving urgently now, all shyness forgotten, on the cusp of something just out of reach and then he sucked there, just there and her whole body shattered with pleasure like it would never stop. She was flying, and he held her to his mouth through her release until she had to pull back, it was too much, she was too sensitive, and he pulled himself up onto the bed next to her and kissed her.

"You taste so good, Sansa, better than any dream I've had, I'd taste you every night if you let me," he murmured and she wasn't entirely sure if he knew he was talking out loud. He was hard against her belly and she was still restless, achy, even now after everything they'd done, and she shifted underneath him and he froze and hissed through his teeth.

"Sansa, we don't, you don't have to -"

"Do you not want to?" It would sound like a tease from anyone else but she meant it, maybe he didn't, maybe she'd gone too far -

"Yes, I want to, Sansa, gods I want to, sweet girl, but...I'm so close, Sansa, I don't think I can stop in time." The muscles in his back rippled under her hands and she knew he was just barely hanging on. He was breathing hard and his eyes were shut tight and she wanted him to let go, to be with her completely, and she knew she'd have to tell him her own truth, just as he'd told her his.

"We don't have to, Jon, we don't, but I don't want you to stop. I want this more than anything, I dream about this Jon, please, stay with me."

The last of his control snapped and he ducked his head and kissed her and thrust up into her and she was so full, the ache eased and he was moving, chanting her name now, how good she felt, how lovely she was. "Stay with me Jon, please," she begged again, and he reached between them and stroked her, and she came apart once more, loving how he gave her everything she wanted, every part of himself.

She woke to the faintest dawn. Jon was asleep, his lips pressed to the crown of her head, and she snuggled deeper into the furs.

She was warm and well-loved and never wanted to leave.

"...Do you want me to go, Sansa?"

 _What are you talking about, Jon? I'm the happiest woman alive right now_.

"Go where?" she managed, sleepily. "We're in your chambers, after all." She smiled at him. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I mean if - you only wanted it to be for a night."

She saw the fear in his eyes, the worry, that maybe he'd pushed her too hard, even though she was the one who'd stolen him. It was dear to her, his sense of honor, but it did make him a bit slow to catch on sometimes.

She rolled on top of him. "Do I have to steal you every night, Jon?" She'd meant to be playful but it came out plaintive, and closer to the truth. Her hand rested on his chest, over his heart. Do I need to convince you, every night, that this is what I want? He sat up, gathering her in his arms, until she was sitting in his lap, and rested his forehead against hers again. Their noses bumped, and she giggled, and he smiled, really smiled, it lit up his face like sunlight.

"No," he said, "you've stolen me forever, you've stolen me for good."

+The End+


End file.
